‘Jenny, Jenny. Calm down, Jenny. Please listen, Jenny . . .’ Peter kept saying as I exploded. ‘I’ll be right over. Call room service and get some food into you. Did you just wake up?’
‘Yes, I did. You told me to call you when I woke up. I am.’
‘Okay, okay. Just order breakfast. Sent up, do you hear? And no reporters. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes. I’ll probably arrive with your breakfast.’
The moment I jammed the phone down I was ashamed of my outburst. But I felt better. I’d roared out some of the tension. I ordered a big breakfast from room service. It’d be lunch because my watch read 11:30. I ran a hot, hot bath which revived me, too.
I had just finished dressing when there was a knock on my door. I almost threw it open when caution returned. Leaving the door on the chain, I opened it a bit and asked who was there.
‘Bell Captain, Dr. Lovell. Mr. Taggert asked me to give you this when you woke up.’ The man passed in a thin parcel wrapped in fine white paper. He left before I could tip him.
I unwrapped a leather-bound, gilt-edged slim volume, a diary: much more elegant than my Eason’s 50 penny pocket thingie. And in the corner of the front cover, in gold, were my initials: D J H L.
I was astounded and then deeply touched as the pages fell open to yesterday’s date. Carefully inscribed in a precise hand were the notations: Arrived Denver, 4:45. See PT, Dinner PT, Hotel Room #804. On today’s date was the entry:
‘Lunch PT, discuss DJL case.’ In the address and phone section all my data had been carefully transcribed in another handwriting. Barbara’s, probably, because it was femininely cursive.
And I’d been such a bitch on the phone! I riffled the pages, and smoothed the leather of the binding. I wondered if Peter knew how much Daniel Jerome mattered to me.
Which reminded me. I walked fingers in the yellow pages, found the phone number of the bookstore with the largest ad, called them and asked for three copies of any books they had in stock by Dana Jane Lovell. I asked them to be sent, cash on delivery, to the hotel and the clerk’s gasp of surprise when I gave her my name was one of the fringe benefits of being a well-known, or should I say, infamous, person in Denver. If the books arrived in time, I could give them, suitably inscribed, to Peter to deliver to the children.
My brunch and Peter arrived simultaneously. He was ordering some lunch for himself when I made with the door-routine.
When I began my enthusiastic thanks for the diary, he tried to brush off the gratitude, telling me to shut up and fill my face. I tried to question him but he said flatly that he never discussed business before breakfast; in this case, mine. He leaned back in his chair and studied a pocket notebook. I was hungry enough to take advantage of this dictum so I plowed through melon, coffee, toast, eggs and sausages until his salad lunch arrived.
‘Now,’ he said, settling before the service table, ‘I’ve made some tentative plans for you, subject to your agreement. A petition for an early trial date has been presented in court this morning. I should know the precise date later today. I see no reason why you can’t keep to your own plan, and see your son. You were then to have returned to Dublin, right? To work? Can you postpone your commitments in Ireland? I can offer you a ski lodge in Aspen for as long as you require it. Would that give you peace and quiet? I can guarantee you won’t be interrupted there.’
‘Wouldn’t the D.A. consider that a bribe?’
‘If his bullheadedness requires a material witness to hang around a foreign country, he can’t complain about interim accommodations. The least I can do is give a guaranteed retreat until the case is tried so you can get on with your story . . .’
‘If I can think of one . . .’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘I did mention that my state of mind is not conducive to writing at the moment . . . And I’m not being difficult.’
‘Then visit friends? Relatives? Relax in sunny Florida.’
‘I’ll take the Aspen lodge.’ I sighed deeply. ‘What a schmazzle! How’s . . . Dan . . . today?’
‘Your arrival has given him a new lease on life.’
‘For a permanent one, you really need the party or parties unknown who did attack his ex-wife.’
‘Don’t I know it. We’ve not been idle, Jenny, even before you responded. I’ve got a damned good investigator working. The trouble is, the goddamn blizzard. A car can be seen, a taxi would have had a record, but the wind wiped any tracks to the house, and there were no fingerprints on the windowsills, doorframes . . . She was found in the kitchen, she’d bled to death from a wound in her skull: coroner says the edge of the counter . . .’
‘I thought she was in a snow drift . . .’
Peter grimaced. ‘She was. The back door was open . . .’
‘Burglar . . .’
Peter shook his head tolerantly. ‘A pine tree had come down . . . and through the back door . . .’
‘Wasn’t she knocked by it?’
‘No way. Her body position was wrong, but the snow drifted in.’
‘Burglar! She discovered him entering because the tree had broken in the back door . . .’
‘Possibly and likely though no one has come forward. What points the finger at Jerry is the evidence of a neighbor who saw a man in a ski mask leaving Noreen Sue’s house at about ten o’clock. She was watching Gunga Din too, and she’d got up to call her dog in. She thought it was odd at the time because there were no lights on in Noreen Sue’s house although she says in her statement that there were visitors at all hours to that house.’
‘Old cow.’
‘She was horrified to think her evidence might convict that nice Mr. Lowell.’ Peter’s comment chided me for my uncharitable remark. ‘She said she would not swear it could have been Dan: merely that it was a tall man, wearing a ski mask, ski jacket and pants tucked into boots or ski boots. And that is all she’s prepared to swear to.’
‘And the D.A. can use that sort of flimsy evidence to convict Dan?’
‘That is only a part of it.’
‘Well, it wasn’t Dan.’
‘I believe you!’
‘What about those other visitors at all hours?’
He nodded. ‘We’re checking, we’re checking but she knew one helluva lot of people who can claim, legitimately, that they were storm bound. We might just luck out. In the meantime . . .’
‘Back at the ranch . . .’
He snorted at my trite attempt at levity. ‘. . . Jerry’s on bail, you’re on the spot, and we’ll just have to bide our time.’
‘But I’m telling the truth.’
He sighed again for that was equally a cliché.
My package arrived from the bookstore, suspiciously thin, and as 1 paid the charges, I realized that I was going to have to disappoint someone. There were only two of my books plus a note from the salesgirl apologizing and saying that she’d special order the others. She’d tried to phone me at the hotel but had been unable to reach me. Would I please ring her?
‘Please explain to Pierrot and Alexandra that I could only get these copies. I’ll send them each a set . . .’
‘There’s no need . . .’
‘I don’t disappoint my fans . . . My publisher can mail them.’ I was inscribing the books, one to the two girls and the other to DJ, ‘Otherwise you’ll have squabbles and that would defeat my purpose.’
‘Now, what do you want to do next? Visit with your son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, come back to Denver and what will you need in the lodge?’
I gave him a sideways look, then sighed and got sensible. ‘Plenty of typing paper, an electric typewriter if possible; is the place within walking distance of a shop?’
‘All supplies will be laid in, there’s a phone, plenty of oil, plenty of firewood. Do you ski? Oh, well.’
‘Mail?’
‘Have it forwarded to my office, I’ll see you get it without delay.’
‘Helicopter or trusty sledge-dog?’
He grinned, merely assuring me all would be taken care of. Then he rose, held my hand in a very tight grip to signify his friendship and appreciation and left me with the final warning to keep to my room. I’d be driven to the airport tomorrow morning.
I was content with that and watched TV, deliberately worried at the pattern of a new sweater. I think I undid the first two rows five times before I got all the bobbles in place and the ocean wave pattern correctly spaced. That kept me from thinking about other things.
Petra drove me to the airport the next morning because Peter was so frightfully busy and a reporter was hanging about his office. Alexandra and Pierrot were thrilled with my book and the inscription. DJ had gone into space and stayed in his room so she assumed that he was equally delighted if less volatile. She worried about the weather because it was snowing lightly again and they’d had so many snowdays already this year. Not only was school work suffering but it was so hard to keep the kids from breaking their necks on the slopes behind the house. She refused to take them to the hills if they were out of school due to snow. Her chatter was soothing, normal, recounted in a humorous tone with great good nature. I didn’t have to do more than make occasional noises.
At the airport I wouldn’t let her wait with me for my plane. The snow was descending with more determination so she didn’t argue.
‘I’ll see you soon, Petra, and thank Peter for everything. Especially my new “brains”.’
She regarded me blankly until I waved the diary.
‘Your “brains” are saving Jerry’s neck. And he told me to tell you to keep all your stitches on your needles.’
Well, a crumb is better than nothing.
When I handed the clerk my ticket, she made me out another new one, with an open return for Denver. I sat in the proper lounge by the correct gate, watching the snow fall down; alternately wishing the plane wouldn’t be able to take off and that nothing would delay me now.
I really shouldn’t have rented a car for the drive from Philadelphia to Bethlehem but I knew the road and it was the quickest way to Tim and his sanity. I called him from Friendship Airport and arranged for him to book me a room at the hotel and meet me there. I haven’t done that much lefthand driving in ages and I had a couple of near misses which made me take it more slowly than my usual slap-dash Irish driving style. When I arrived Tim was pacing the hotel lobby, for all the world like his father, and his bear hug of relief all but cracked my ribs.
He started issuing orders to the clerk and the bellgirl in her short skirt and high white boots. Before I could protest, my luggage was whisked away and I was in the bar with a drink in my hand and Tim coping with everything. We had a quiet dinner and a few more drinks. He wouldn’t let me talk. He wined, dined and deposited me in bed with a capsule to make me sleep like ‘right now.’ He gave me a lovely hug and a kiss and patted me on the head. I went to sleep blessing my good fortune in sons, and not for the first time.
The sleep revived me and I met Tim at the University Center and had a snack lunch with him. He then conned me into visiting the book store and into buying a Texas Instruments SR-50 which he said he needed to speed up his physics homework which was brutal. I had to listen to his explanation about the various functions, memory, places until I reminded him that even slide rules defeated me. I was a librarian, not a mathematician. He went on to his afternoon classes, with a cocky step for his chicanery, and I got myself a hair appointment which did my morale a lot of good.
I phoned my publishers in the afternoon about the books and was promised instant shipment. I talked with the lecture bureau and they’d had good reports but we agreed that my schedule had been very stiff and that next year’s would be arranged with more regard for breathing spaces. I did not mention the Case to them but I did to my agent. As I expected, Sam remarked that all publicity was useful but could I please make a practice of avoiding any future mur . . . sorry, manslaughter suspects?
The five o’clock news on TV brought the good word that the Midwest was again blanketed in snow. I’d got out of Denver in good time.
At dinner I gave Tim the whole story of my involvement with manslaughter. I emphasized that distinction. I didn’t tell Tim the whole story, but Tim was not naïve and I wanted him to know that I had a very good opinion of Daniel Jerome despite his circumstantial guilt. I could quite understand why Tim might be jaundiced about a man who’d got his mother messed up in a mur . . . manslaughter charge. Tim swore at women like Noreen Sue who’d neglect a child. Tim was gripping my hand firmly at that point and I looked up with throat-jamming gratitude at the bony broad shoulders of my offspring, the strong but unmarked face and the keen eyes behind the glasses. I’d made enough money to afford contact lenses for him and the glasses hid his best feature, very clear green eyes, but he kept wanting useful things like microscopes and telescopes and SR-50s.
Now that my budget of news was over, I realized that he had something of moment to tell me. ‘She’ was a Cedar Crest student, with a really lovely singing voice who didn’t mind that he couldn’t carry a tune so long as he knew how to appreciale decent music. Her name was Patricia Newlands and her nickname was Trish. Would I be staying long enough in town to meet her or did I have to fly back to Denver right away? The next day was Saturday and he had no classes but she did until one. Would I like to meet her?
I had some difficulty remaining calm, cool and collected I was so pleased. Tim, wrapped up in what was his first serious girl, mistook my dignity for hurt feelings.
‘Hey, Mom, you’ll always be my best girl. You don’t have to worry.’
‘Not now, I don’t.’
‘Huh? You weren’t worried about me, were you?’
In point of fact, I had had several twinges. I was absolutely certain Tim was completely masculine but we’d had such a close relationship, such a fine understanding, that I had had some misgivings about dominant female-mothers and lack of male-father-figures and that sort of go-round. At the time when I thought he should be going with one girl, he was still part of his special group of boy friends who seemed to date a corresponding group of girl friends. Tim had seemed to specialize in giving considered advice to both girls and boys as if being an American, with an American mother, gave him special insight. Which it probably did since sex education in Ireland is a no-no.
‘Well . . .’ I began, temporizing,
‘Mom!’ Tim was shocked, annoyed, disappointed and disgusted.
‘Well, I tried not to be the heavy mother . . .’
‘Ah, no way, Mom. It’s just, well . . . I didn’t find someone I felt you’d like. . . . You knew all the girls in Blackrock. And I always had someone about . . .’
I was properly abashed and asked about Trish. I had built one picture which dissolved the moment I met Trish in the flesh the next day. She was exceedingly feminine (Tim had said she could cycle all day without complaining), with close cropped black curls (natural, Tim had told me) and an ‘interesting’ face. (I am not being snide but Trish had the type of looks which mature, not a transient prettiness that so often fades into discontent in an older personality.) She was so lively, so natural that you forgot her appearance in the glow of her warm merriness.
Tim had brought his guitar (he can’t sing but he does play) and when he asked her to sing for me in the hotel room, she obliged without simpering disclaimers. She asked me what sort of songs I liked best and, when Tim said I was a folk song freak, she sang several which Joan Baez had made popular. She had a lovely voice, warm and true and though she didn’t need much volume to carry in the hotel room, I sensed a strength. Certainly she sounded better than some of the singers I’d endured recently on TV programs.
We had dinner and she told me that she had no intentions of settling down but she rather doubted her chances of making a name for herself. She’d be quite happy to find a good church or school job since such employment was secure and she liked working with children and chorale groups. Musical training was an ace in the hole, she felt, and it was so
‘iffy’ to set your sights on the Met or City Center when there were so many other satisfying careers available in music.
Inadvertently I found myself comparing Trish with my young nephew’s Linda: and Sam with Tim. Then I decided that there was no comparison in temperament and character. And none, I hoped, in situation.
As I drove the car to Cedar Crest to get Trish in on time, she asked me if I’d like to listen to the school church choir the next morning.
‘Mom’s very tired, Trish,’ Tim said hastily, knowing how I felt about organized religions.
‘I should have thought of that, Mrs. Lovell. Tim told me what a heavy schedule you’ve had. How many miles in how many days?’
‘Tim can figure it out on the SR-50.’
‘I’m awfully glad I had a chance to meet you, Mrs. Lovell, without having to come all the way to Ireland, that is.’ She gave Tim a look and then thanked me again for dinner. I wished her luck and turned the car about as Tim walked her to the dormitory door.
Tim had something on his mind when he got back into the car but I didn’t question him. I didn’t want to answer any more and if he had something to say, I knew of old that it’d come out when he felt the time was right. The Denver business obviously upset him and he had obviously not mentioned it to Trish. He kissed me good night when I delivered him to his dorm door and warned me to drive home carefully, to sleep late and he’d phone around noontime.
I was pleasantly tired when I parked the car in the hotel lot. However, no sooner had I got settled in bed and closed my eyes, than the old brain spun ‘round and ‘round. I wished I’d asked Tim for another capsule.
Generally I do a lot of constructive thinking on my insomniac nights: it’s the only way to cope with them. In my own home, I’m apt to get up and go to the typewriter and see what’ll happen. Here I tossed and turned, wrestling with the problems of returning to Denver and all that could happen nasty.
I envisioned myself superbly poised while the D.A. ruthlessly cross-examined me with all the rapier wit and studied contempt of the TV prototype. I, like the suave polished barrister of JUSTICE, a veritable Margaret Lockwood in bag wig, replied with cool candour and resilience. I thought up ninety-two euphemisms for not admitting Dan and I had had sexual relations. Then my errant mind reviewed those passages at arms.
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